


A Sober Chorus, Undermined by Wasted Verse

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Bottom Will Graham, Cock Warming, Dom Hannibal Lecter, Established Relationship, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Marking, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Semi-Public Sex, Someone Help Will Graham, Sub Will Graham, Top Hannibal Lecter, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 01:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16609148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Will is fever-sweet, burning up beside him. Hannibal sighs, inwardly – it will be time, soon, he knows, to pull back on the reins and bring Will into the land of the living again. It was a fun experiment, but he has since found a much more satisfying and sweeter use for Will, and the reward of his submission and persistent desire to please has proven far more diverting.





	A Sober Chorus, Undermined by Wasted Verse

**Author's Note:**

> there was discussion in the hannigram discord server about cockwarming and well.........I can't help myself......  
> set during s1 so there's the issue of real consent with will's encephalitis, and hannibal being...hannibal. he cares? but he's not super great about showing it.
> 
> enjoy!

Hannibal opens the door that leads to the back entrance for his patients. He checks his watch. Three, two…

The outside door opens, a flurry of biting wind, a sharp snap of fever-sweetness that is Will taken to him like an offering of food on a fork. Hannibal swallows as Will yanks the door shut behind him, pets, frantically, at his wayward mess of curls, and meets Hannibal's eyes.

Hannibal offers him a smile that is not kind, but welcoming, and steps back to allow Will inside. Will passes by him in a single press of saccharine sweat and honey mead, that aftertaste of the deodorant and shampoo he uses now, at Hannibal's behest – one small, simple way in which Hannibal flexes his control over his sweet boy, so desperate for a tether, a paddle, a handhold.

He closes the door and takes Will's coat, hangs it. Will shivers, his body a delicate 'S' of flushed skin, strong muscles. His overshirt, pink as his blush, parted at the collar to show the enticing arch of his neck. Beneath it, a single swoop of white. Will pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, tucks in the cuffs unrefined and jittery, and keeps Hannibal's shadow in his field of vision.

"Would you like some wine, Will?" Hannibal asks. Resists, for now, the temptation to bury his hand in Will's curls, to bury his teeth in Will's neck. There will be time for that later. Time, he knows, stretches on only for Will. It forms teeth, grows tendrils of smoke, dragged by the ankles to midnight and, beyond it, dawn.

Will's chin lifts, he shakes his head, strides cavalier and discourteous to the two-seater couch that bridges Hannibal's chairs. Sits, feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped like he's in prayer, but his posture is straight, shoulders parallel with hips, chin set at a perfect right-angle from the cross-section of his throat.

Hannibal smiles. "I hope you won't mind if I indulge, then," he replies, purring, prowling, as he goes to the little decanter and the glasses set on a small table by his desk. Sometimes Will wants to drink, sometimes he doesn't. Hannibal doesn't mind – if Will did not consent to anything they did here, in this room, or Hannibal's house, or the opera, or anywhere else, he would not come at all.

Will's jaw clenches, his nostrils flare, and Hannibal is gifted with a single slip, a flash of his brilliantly blue eyes as they fall to Hannibal's hands, watch him uncap, watch him pour. Watch his fingers curl as he lifts the glass to his nose, breathes in, and drinks.

His Will: always the audience, never the artist.

Hannibal smiles at him and Will's posture corrects, short jerks of his shoulders like someone rapped him with a willow branch. He swallows, fingers unhooking from each other and spreading wide on his knees instead. Knuckles pale, but not white. Not clenching.

Hannibal goes to him and sits on the couch beside him. When Will sits here, Hannibal does also. When in the chairs, Hannibal mirrors him. Monkey see, monkey do. He laughs to himself and it garners no attention from Will.

After a moment, an hour, a day, Will sucks in a very slow breath. His scent turns even sweeter just as his eyes do, turning and fixing Hannibal with that slow, ever-rolling current of oceans and rivers. Dragging, dragging him down, Hannibal can only stare at the mouth of the beast and hope it chooses to smile at him.

Will's fingers flex.

"It's…" He frowns.

Hannibal checks his watch again. "Seven thirty-six," he says.

"It's seven thirty-six," Will says, quietly, and looks away. "My name is Will Graham. I'm in Baltimore, in the office of Doctor Hannibal Lecter."

Hannibal smiles and, in reward, lets his hand turn on its axis, lets the knuckles of his pinky and ring finger touch Will's thigh and Will trembles. "Good," he whispers, and Will's shoulders stiffen, then sag, like his heart is shrugging. Will lifts his chin, lifts his eyes, fixes them on the second floor of Hannibal's office and lets out his breath through his teeth.

"Have you been losing any more time?" Hannibal asks.

Will shakes his head, breathes again; "Not since we started doing…this," he replies. Hannibal smiles, allows the cause and effect to become more than just correlation in Will's mind. "Been sleeping better, too," he adds, like an afterthought.

"I'm glad," Hannibal says. He resists the urge to check Will's temperature, for Will is fever-sweet, burning up beside him. He sighs, inwardly – it will be time, soon, he knows, to pull back on the reins and bring Will into the land of the living again. It was a fun experiment, but he has since found a much more satisfying and sweeter use for Will, and the reward of his submission and persistent desire to please has proven far more diverting.

Will swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and finally turns and meets Hannibal's eyes. Reflects back at him, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the dark shadows in the sockets. Will bites his lower lip and Hannibal's eyes drop, sees the flesh swollen and tender-looking, just begging to be kissed.

Will's hand turns, tilts, threading his fingers under Hannibal's outstretched palm in a plaintive, desperate cry for help, like a child about to lose their parent in the crowds. His eyes, wide, searching, the curl of his hair clinging to his neck and the sides of his face. He appears as a fawn, trembling with cold, about to ask protection from the big bad wolf.

Hannibal stands, finishing his wine, and goes to his desk. He pulls his chair out and sits behind it, watches as Will's cheeks darken, his fingers curl and spread out over the obvious tension in his thighs, fabric pulled thin, muscles flexed.

He smiles. "Come here, Will."

Will rises, feet not dragging, not like they did the first time, weighted with apprehension and shame. Now he moves with eagerness, coltish and desperate as he circles the desk and falls to his knees at Hannibal's feet.

Hannibal smiles, and finally succumbs to his desire to slide his fingers into Will's hair. He tugs, watches Will's lips part, watches his lashes flutter and close. Watches the slip of his tongue as he wets his lower lip and presses his thumb there, head tilted as Will catches the nail between his teeth, lets out a weak, wanting noise.

Hannibal pulls his hand back, smiling when Will's lashes spread and his black-swollen eyes gaze upwards. "I have some notes I need to write up for another patient of mine," Hannibal says. "It will take me at least an hour."

Will nods, though he cannot do much more than jerk his chin with how closely Hannibal holds his hair. Hannibal smiles, and pulls Will, hands and knees, crawling until he is curled up under Hannibal's desk. Hannibal pushes his chair in, lets Will settle, and opens his notebook.

Will's hands tug at his belt, open the button of his suit jacket to part his clothes. Hannibal drags his messier notes over to rest atop his official notebook, studies the musings and marks he has made, and sighs as Will unbuttons and unzips the fly of his suit pants, parts his clothes there. His fingers hold some of the outside chill and Hannibal gives a huff of protest.

Will sighs, his breath warm on the growing interest of Hannibal's flesh, and he gently takes his flaccid cock out, licks his lips obscenely loud, so Hannibal can hear it, and then takes it into his mouth.

Then, he settles. Hannibal's eyes flutter closed again, and he drops his left hand, curls in Will's hair and tugs him closer, spreading his thighs so Will can tuck his shoulders beneath Hannibal's knees and settle where Hannibal wants him. Will's hands curl around the armrests of his chair, at the base, and go still.

He breathes out, tongue flat and wet and warm on the underside of Hannibal's cock. He has done this often enough, now, to know how to relax his jaw, know how to breath and gentle his tongue so it does not provide too much stimulation. The ache of him, the seeping sweetness from his sweat-damp forehead, encases Hannibal's throat, squeezes the base of his lungs. Beneath that scent, outside air and dogs and some liquid courage, Hannibal is sure.

He licks his teeth, and pulls his hand from Will's hair, elbow braced on the desk as he begins to write.

Every five minutes, like clockwork, he lets his hand slide down his thigh. He does not touch Will, but lets him hear the drag of nails on fabric, lets him anticipate. Hears his breath catch and feels his throat spasm as he swallows back the growing pool of saliva in his mouth. He is warm, warm and wet on the inside. So deliciously sweet. His neck, an open invitation for teeth and claws. His shoulders, sagged and merely bearing Hannibal's weight, not trying to lift or separate. His hands, digging into the cushion of Hannibal's chair.

He is calm, and exquisite in his sanctuary.

When the time ticks to eight thirty, Hannibal is not done, but his session with Will is. Will's jaw bears signs of reluctant spasm, his tongue has started to work lazily over Hannibal's cock and Hannibal shuts his book, pushes them to one side, and cups Will's fevered cheeks with both hands.

He eases Will off his cock, digs his heels in to push his chair back, and meets Will's eyes. Here, he is unfocused, seeking blindly the gentle touches of Hannibal's hands on his cheeks, the weight of his cock in his mouth. He whines, licks his lips, and Hannibal brushes a warm palm over his forehead, smiling when Will lifts his eyes.

He clears his throat, and says, hoarsely; "It's eight thirty." Not a question. Will used to ask, but now he knows better.

"Yes," Hannibal replies, soothing. Will shuffles forward, just an inch, leans his cheek against Hannibal's knee and swallows harshly. His hands, pulled from the chair, reach out again now, circle and tug at the bottom of Hannibal's suit pants. There is an obvious, obscene bulge in his own slacks, a flush on his neck, unbidden arousal stirred in him at being on his knees for a man like Hannibal – a man with the control and self-awareness to take care of Will and let him drift.

Will's chin lifts, a flash of defiance, the return of the man who snaps his teeth at corpses and seeks, eagerly, for the source of their death. The man who spreads his hands along chest cavities and tender organs and wants to tear into them.

Hannibal smiles.

He pulls Will upwards, pulls him to an animal crouch, cradles his warm nape and his throbbing heart and draws Will into a kiss. Will gasps for him, seeking his sweet wine and poisonous tongue, moans breathlessly and trembles.

Hannibal stands.

"Turn around, darling," he says, and is gentle with Will when Will turns, shaking, eyes flashing briefly with non-directional anger when he sees Hannibal's notebook. He always wonders if Hannibal is writing about him, at times like this, but never asks. Still, the curiosity burns, as warm as the fever clinging to Will's flesh.

Hannibal lets him bend, lets him bow, a monument of galvanized steel and melting ice. Elbows, to the desk, back arched up to show the bulge of his spine. Hannibal steps close, pushes his cock back into his clothes and corrects them, and flattens his hands on Will's hips.

Flattens on his back, lets Will feels his weight, grounding him. Will whines, bows his head so his forehead touches his knuckles, rears up and back as Hannibal mounts him, bigger, stronger, able to weigh Will down and bring him back from the floating place.

"Did it feel good, darling?" Hannibal asks, as he grinds against Will's ass, imagines Will letting him pierce here, too, letting Hannibal spread him open and warm his cock in Will's body. It's decadent, having Will like this, this wild and savage creature of claws and chains and Hannibal digs his nails in, bares his teeth, when Will whimpers.

"Yes," he replies. Then, shaken as uprooted riverbed stones; "Thank you."

Hannibal smiles, and pulls away. Will's submission is more settling than any wine, more filling than any food. Hannibal's tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his teeth too sharp, and he lets Will stand, turns him, and kisses him again, hands on Will's trembling pulse, thumbs in the softness under his jaw.

Will shivers when the kiss ends, his hands flexing, withdrawn, in the air around Hannibal's flanks. Hannibal waits, waits for his eyes to lift, his shoulders to sag, and he swallows and meets Hannibal's eyes.

Hannibal pets him tenderly, offers a sweet, soft smile, and says; "Go home." Will nods, throat flexing beneath Hannibal's hands. "You may touch yourself, if you need to, but do not bring yourself to release. I'd like you to visit me again tomorrow."

Will's brow creases, a flicker-spark of errant distrust, of question. But his expression quickly smooths, and he nods. "Same time?"

Hannibal smiles. "Yes, dear Will," he purrs, and brings Will forward by his neck, kisses Will's forehead and breathes in deeply. The scent of him here is sour now, like grapes intended for wine left to sit too long and turning to vinegar.

Will's lips twitch, half a smile, and he nods, and allows Hannibal to release him, and moves away. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Lecter," he says, still hoarse, low-rasping, and Hannibal swallows back a huff of amusement. It is certainly no trial on his end, that's for certain.

 

 

"Agent Crawford, thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

"It's no problem, Hannibal," Jack says. He's sitting in a chair Hannibal pulled up to the other side of his desk. Hannibal is sitting, and has placed a curtain behind the open part of his desk, hiding Will from sight. His sweet Will, on his knees, Hannibal's cock in his mouth. Will's hands, at his sides now, kneading restlessly at his thighs.

Hannibal had not told Will Jack would be coming. He doesn't look down but knows Will's eyes are on him, dark with accusation. Knows Will is not going to behave, tonight – the animal prowling beneath his skin has its hackles raised and its teeth bared.

Still, his mouth is delightfully warm and sweet as he swallows, suckling weakly at the head of Hannibal's cock.

"What can I do for you?"

Hannibal sits forward, until Will's forehead butts against his stomach, and puts his elbows on his desk. "We need to discuss Will."

"Will?" Jack repeats.

 _Will_? It's as though Will has shouted it. His head tilts, his tongue brushing heavily over the head of Hannibal's cock in question. Still, he makes no sound, but his throat is flexing, taking Hannibal deeper as Hannibal's cock twitches, hardening in Will's mouth from the stimulation.

Hannibal presses his lips together, and sighs through his nose. "Will has been seeing me for several months now," he begins, and drums the sides of his hands on his desk to hide the way his eyes want to close, hide the way his jaw clenches and chest goes tight when Will sucks on him, tongue wrapping brazen and teasing at his shaft. "I believe it would be best for him if you stopped this flagrant abuse of his imagination."

Jack's throat bulges like a bullfrog, he sits back to get distance from Hannibal's sharp teeth, his eyes dark and blistering with outrage. "You call it abuse," he says flatly.

"I do," Hannibal replies with a curt nod. His fingers flex, and straighten, itching to bury themselves in Will's hair, to tug and pull and make him _take_. "Will is a long point from being perfectly stable, and your persistent use of him is not doing him any favors. He needs a break."

"A break," Jack repeats, a parrot and a bullfrog, then. Hannibal smiles in the wake of Jack's annoyance. "And how long do you suggest he take this _break_ , hmm?"

Hannibal's head tilts. He expected this question, but the way Will's mouth is working on him is driving him to distraction. Sweat is gathering, behind his knees, between his thighs. One of Will's hands flatten, smooth and brazen, up his calf, bunching the fabric there. Hannibal's cheeks are flushed.

"I'd suggest a month," he says.

Will swallows and Jack curses loud enough to hide the sound.

"I can't let him go for a month, Hannibal," Jack bites out, and Will, beneath the desk, whines, very softly. Eager, pleading, _make him go away._ Hannibal tenses his thighs, brushes his knee against Will's shoulder, and says;

"It is not my place to force you, of course." He smiles, wide and slow, swallowing harshly when Will sinks down onto him, nose at the peek of pubic hair between his clothes, a soft sigh from his nose as he holds himself there, throat spasming in weak protest. "But if Will's condition should worsen, I may be compelled, as his therapist, to enter him into a program that robs him of your influence anyway."

"What, like admit him to a psych ward?" Jack's voice has gone soft with disbelief, as if Hannibal would dare.

"If that's what it takes, yes," Hannibal says. He pulls his hands back, straightens in his seat and slides his chair forward, forcing Will to curl around him, hands on his thighs, nails digging in. He sucks more loudly this time and Hannibal clears his throat, wonders if he's showing too many teeth when he smiles. "I'm merely asking you to consider it, Agent Crawford. Will is not, technically, one of your men, but he is certainly my patient, and I will defend his right to proper care should it come to that."

It's a challenge, of course – Hannibal certainly meant for it to be one. He tilts his head, eyes the outraged spark in Jack's eyes, the drum of his fingers. Watches, as Jack stands, and fastens his coat.

"Goodnight, Doctor Lecter," he says tersely, and turns and strides out of the room, the door closing with more weight than what Hannibal would consider strictly polite. But then his attention is turned to Will, as Will sucks, harshly, on his cock, bobs his head once, growling, and the rumble of his throat makes Hannibal's breath catch.

He pulls back, gives Will room to prowl from beneath the desk, and Will pulls off of him, eyes phantom-dark as he looks up at Hannibal, wraps a hand around his erection to keep the sensation high – Will is, somehow, under the delusion that Hannibal is more honest when he's fucking something. Perhaps he is – that's up to God and a jury to decide.

He smiles, and pushes Will's sweat-damp hair from his face. "Our hour isn't up yet, darling."

"Fuck the hour," Will snaps, showing teeth. "You thought you could waltz in here and tell Jack how to do his job and I wouldn't have anything to say about it?"

"On the contrary, I was sure you would," Hannibal replies, head tilted. He thumbs at the raw corner of Will's mouth, slides his thumb to Will's lower lip and Will shivers, hand abruptly stilling on Hannibal's cock. It's a trigger, one Hannibal took great care to imprint on him, to feel Hannibal's fingers on his lip.

Will slow-blinks, trembles, his lips parting to let Hannibal slide his thumb in. He drags the pad over the rough scrape of Will's tongue, down, between his teeth. Threads between the molars and smiles when Will applies gentle pressure.

"Have I overstepped?" Hannibal asks, smug and fine.

Will's lashes flutter, and he lets out a weak sound, and Hannibal pulls his thumb free, so he can speak. "No, I -." Will's sweetness is overwhelming, the flash of fire and desperation in his eyes is truly a sight to behold. Will looks down, bites his lower lip, looks at his white knuckles around Hannibal's red flesh.

"I trust you," Will breathes, and parts his lips, kissing between his fingers and giving Hannibal another taste of his warm mouth. Oh, his sweet, eager boy. What a foolish thing, to trust a monster like him. But a decadent knowledge, nonetheless. Hannibal pets through his hair, tugs, and Will whines.

"Open your mouth, darling," he commands, and Will obeys with another weak sound, letting Hannibal's erection slide between his lips, behind his teeth. Will's other hand falls to his own cock, squeezing it through his slacks. "Did you touch yourself last night?"

Will moans, and nods.

"Did you come?"

A small headshake, Hannibal's cockhead sliding to the back of his throat and making the tender muscles there spasm.

"Would you like to?" Hannibal breathes.

Will's eyes flash, and lift, and he lets out a choked, needy sound. He squeezes his own cock, squeezes Hannibal's thigh, and blinks up at him again. Hannibal smiles, and pulls on Will's hair until his cock slips from his bruised lips.

"Take off your clothes, Will," Hannibal commands, and Will shivers, wide-eyed, weak in the neck, in the knees, but he nods, pulling his sweater over his head, and his shirt, cuffs and collar loose enough to allow it, baring his chest. His belt comes next, his slacks and underwear falling to his feet. He takes off his shoes, his socks, and lets the clothes puddle in a heap at Hannibal's feet.

Hannibal sighs, admiring the flushed muscles, the twitching flesh. What a fine meal Will would make. "Turn around," he says, and Will obeys, showing Hannibal the scar on his shoulder, the stab-wound long-since healed. Hannibal tugs him by the hips and Will settles on his lap, legs spread wide, head tilted back onto Hannibal's shoulder.

Hannibal tuts, and pushes at his thighs. "Keep your legs together," he says, scolding. After all, Will is not a whore, he shouldn't present himself like one. Will trembles, catching the ice in Hannibal's voice, flesh breaking out into goose bumps as he tightens his legs and Hannibal's cock can thrust between them. Oh, Will is smooth as sin here, warm and divine. Hannibal wraps an arm around his chest, pinching his nipple between two fingers and tugging.

" _Hannibal_ ," Will breathes, arching up, the cling of his thighs and the buck of his hips causing Hannibal to tense, a heavy exhale ghosting along Will's neck. Will breathes for him, arches for him, aches, desperate and raw when he says, "Please. Touch me."

Hannibal smiles. "I am touching you," he says, a wicked purr of a cat with the mouse in its claws. Will turns his head, cheeks a delicate flush of red meat, sweat-damp hair plastered sticky-wet to his throat. He bares his neck and Hannibal's upper lip twitches, wanting to bite. Will is so sweet for him, warm and wanting.

Will wraps a hand around his cock and Hannibal snarls, twisting his nipple sharply in punishment and Will cries out, rears back against his shoulder, panting and trembling. His cock, red now, leaking, twitches against his stomach as he lets go and fists his hands in the arms of Hannibal's chair.

"I'm sorry," he moans, because right now he is Hannibal's and Hannibal's rule and control is absolute over everything he does. Hannibal gentles his grip, rubs over the pinking skin and rolls his hips, sinking his cock between Will's thighs. "I'm sorry, I -."

"Hush, darling," Hannibal purrs, brushing his knuckles down Will's heaving chest. He presses his lips, parted, over Will's thrumming pulse, and catches skin between his teeth, sucking a mark low enough on Will's neck that a collar will hide it, but it will certainly ache whenever Will moves his head and bares his throat – and he does it so often, this brazen creature, so eager for a bigger monster to come along and mount it.

Will trembles for him, eyes clenched tightly shut, and he gasps and writhes as Hannibal finally, _finally_ , wraps a hand around his cock. He jerks in his arms, gasping again, eyes flaring open and staring up as Hannibal strokes him with firm, assured touches.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," he says, weak at the neck, clawing desperately at the arms of Hannibal's chair. Every time Hannibal swipes his thumb through his leaking slit, Will's thighs tighten and clench around his cock, his hips roll and Hannibal shivers, and does it again. They create between them a feedback loop of need and control, aggression and supplication. Will burns for him, trembling and flushed, sweet as an innocent boy with all the enraged passion of a predator.

"Tell me what you're thinking about, Will," he murmurs, kissing the blushing bruise he laid to Will's neck. Will trembles, tightens his legs as Hannibal keeps touching him. "Stay with me, darling."

"I'm -. I -." Will hisses, wincing, his stomach sinking in, chest expanding with a rapid inhale. Hannibal's free hand settles over his chest, measuring the ticks and bumps of his heart. "I'm wondering why you would tell Jack something like that."

Hannibal smiles, tightens his hand and strokes down, very slowly. Will's legs spread, just a little, inviting him lower, and though it is a gracious offer, he can't afford to lose Will to the mindless bliss of being mounted just yet. He pulls his hand back up and taps on Will's chest.

"Your settlement and wellbeing is paramount to me, Will," he replies gently.

Will huffs, shows his teeth. "Your control is paramount," he growls. Hannibal huffs a laugh, bats his palm roughly against Will's cockhead, knowing it will sting. Will flinches, whining, but doesn't relent; "You believe my happiness is the same as your control?"

"One affects the other," Hannibal says. "Can you honestly say otherwise?"

"No," Will breathes, a soft admittance, tipping his head back again, giving Hannibal another frantic invitation to bite at his neck. Hannibal does, higher this time, where the flesh is soft and yielding. All of Will is yielding, but that is not because he is weak, or pliable, but because Hannibal is strong, and he delights in laying evidence of his strength on Will's bruised skin.

"Would you really do it?" Will breathes, hitching, trembling. His thighs press together, so tight and warm and slick with sweat, now. Hannibal growls, suckles at Will's flesh, bites again. "Take me away from Jack?"

"Oh, darling, never underestimate the things that I would do to you."

The tremor in Will starts in his hands. He flinches, gasping, clawing at Hannibal's clothed hips. His nails find bare skin, sink in. His shoulders, roll, tense, his hips bucking up. His heels lift, dig, slide down Hannibal's shins and he comes with a soft whimper, eyes tightly shut to lock out the world, but then he lifts his head, watches Hannibal's hand, his stomach, get coated with his seed. Watches the white streaks of it paint his blushing skin. Watches Hannibal's hand go tight around the head of his cock, subtly pulling, just to hear Will whine.

"Hannibal," he whispers, panting, pawing. "Please, please -."

He parts his thighs. The skin of them is pink, now, chafed and raw. He won't walk right come morning. Hannibal swallows back his low, viscerally pleased snarl, drinks in the sweet scent of Will's sweat and fever-addled brain, and uses the slick on his hand to touch himself, to press his cockhead against Will's bared hole.

"Let me in, darling," he purrs, and Will is weak-limbed, ragged, his breath coming in explosive exhales as Hannibal forces the head of his cock into Will's dry, tight body. Will whimpers, parting for him, as gracious as he can be with his hackles up and his jaw tight. It hurts, Hannibal knows it hurts, but it does not last long. Hannibal plants his hands on Will's hips, rolls his own, fucks in and up until Will cries out, sharply, spasming in pain, and Hannibal comes with Will's sweat on his tongue and the scent of his anguish in his lungs.

He pushes Will to his feet and Will stumbles, shaken, leaking slickly from his stomach and his ass. He knows better than to brace himself on the desk, knows better than to smear their mess and dirty Hannibal's office. He turns, wide-eyed, and watches as Hannibal corrects his clothes and pushes himself to his feet.

Will straightens, jaw clenched, eyes dark as Hannibal cups his face, smears Will's seed through his facial hair and flattens over his jaw. He growls, pulls Will in for a kiss, and Will shivers, melting against him as he always does, hands fluttering weakly in the air around Hannibal's shoulders before they suddenly land, and tighten.

Will pulls away, lifts his chin. "You don't own me, Doctor Lecter," he says, sharp-eyed and cutting, and Hannibal wants to purr, wants to laugh and pull his sweet, savage boy into his arms.

"Of course not, darling," he replies, and tucks Will's sweaty hair behind his ear. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Will glares, growls, and pulls away, grabbing his clothes and pulling them on. "Will, before you go," Hannibal says, and reaches into the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a prescription pad. He writes a prescription for a corticosteroid, an anticonvulsant, and a heavy painkiller that will alleviate Will's headaches.

He tears them off, and hands them to Will, who takes them with shaking fingers. There is a dark smear of Will's come on the corner.

Will frowns down at them, and then lifts his eyes. "What are these for?"

Hannibal smiles. Watching Will's mind become enflamed was a diverting practice, but now it's time to move on from that – there are much more delicate and sweeter things he would provide for Will's needs, that require him to have a clear head.

"Trust me," Hannibal says, and reaches out to touch Will's face again. Will shivers, biting his lower lip, and tilts into the touch. His fingers flex, hard enough that the paper in his hand crinkles. "I promise, you'll feel better."

Will's eyes flash, his jaw works from side to side, but he nods, accepting Hannibal's offer while not knowing the full extent of it. As he always has. So trusting, so sweet, his Will. "Thank you," he murmurs, heavy with some kind of understanding, Hannibal is sure. He shifts his weight, wincing, clothes clinging to the tacky stain of Hannibal's seed on his thighs, of his own, on his stomach. He clears his throat. "See you next week?"

"I'm looking forward to it," Hannibal purrs, and walks him to the door. He sets a hand on Will's shoulder, squeezes his nape, and steals one more kiss from his parted, gasping lips. "But please, should you need it, don't hesitate in coming to me at any hour."

Will flushes, bites his lower lip, and nods.

"Thank you for your time, Doctor Lecter," he breathes, and shoulders his coat, shoulders his armor. Becomes the errant snap of justice, the wayward atom that will eventually split, collide, and go nuclear. "Goodnight."

Hannibal smiles. "Goodnight, Will."


End file.
